Sleeping Man

what good is man asleep 

he struggles to create in dreams 

what he will never have

He falls through shadows 

Only to awake in shrieking nightmares 

Rekindles old love and foolish illusions

Lives as different people, a stranger to himself  

His desire unchained while traversing stars 

A snoring man struggles to renew ailing health 

One hand out-stretched to catch coins of gold

The other gripping happiness at the end 

of a piled high silver desert spoon 

Resuscitation (poem)

As life ebbs from my lungs 

would you resuscitate me in time 

to save my body and brain function

would you choose to bring me back to life

or decide to let me drop soaring through the sky

As my body lay dying    my mind    would   race 
navigating over mist covered mountains   without you
stuck fast in  winter snow  

Or perhaps I would find myself cast-adrift in unrelenting seas

buried in a deep watery grave without one single chance of being found

If that were so there would be no final farewell for us my love

In my still heart I would falter having no remote desire to survive 

without your arms shooting whistling arrows by my side 

Only you would remember the holy prophecy of love

tattooed on each others swollen hearts as if stung by bees

chiseled in the finest inks mixing our blood into crying magenta  

Quick run fast over land held tight by dangerous enemies hands  

For death may swoop upon us from motley grey coloured hills

like a hungry lion starved covered in blood splattered gore

One of us destined to die the other to carry the gift of a curse that is long life 

Whilst the weaker of the two is unceremoniously dispatched and robbed like hay cut short 
under the sweeping blow of a sharpened sickle in the clash of ringing war 

The Road to Ruin - Onboard a Night-bus travelling to Welly

Everything blurred about as i left the city, trees, windows, old wheezing

air-conditioning units became one indistinct ray of pale green as I raced away.

The sky outside the motionless night-bus I was climbing into was darker, 
than blackest obsidian rock buried deep within the folds of the earth. 
I left with no regrets speeding away from the bustling viaduct with its 
enclave of seedy bars populated by corporate drunks, either bored, aggressive or bemused.

Together all the travellers onboard the giant bus came from different corners

of the world. They were forced to mingle with overly friendly locals inquiring 

about where they came from and why they had travelled so far, to New Zealand

of all places. As the tourists grappled to find adequate answers in a second 

language we began to move forward, the hefty combustion engine bursting to life gargling

petrol. The engine together with the buses axle lashed the chrome wheels of the bus onward,
first we moved in a low canter then at once a blustering free-spirited gallop drove
flash looking vehicle across the smooth downtown streets. As the chockablock 
bus gained momentum, accelerated and stopped at red lights

we zipped past tall concrete buildings vacant and empty of overworked employees.

In less than ten minutes our urban surroundings melted and morphed outside, 

through the mirror-like windows I saw the noisy city give way to quiet rundown

Auckland suburbs populated with foolishly overpriced houses and limping 

lampposts unlit indifferent to the safety of pedestrians walking late at night. 

Half an hour in my stomach started to somersault like a supremely ungifted male gymnast.
Instantly I  regretted eating far to much Chinese takeaways at the wooden dinner table,

especially when i thought about the long road ahead to windswept long-suffering Wellington

 where my brother Gabriel lived. In some unknown flat nestled high above 

Aro valley in an old house in the wealth infested area of Kelburn, slightly to

upmarket for the encouraged likes of students. Gabe told me where he lived 
tpohutkawa trees loomed over weathered pioneer houses built on sheer cliffs 
overlooking a raging harbour and mystical forest. Pushing aside the painted pictures 
in my head of what Kelburn looked like my mind wandered. Eventually I started 
chuckling while tossing about in my awkward bus bed as I recalled something funny.
I hadn't even left home and my Mother said she was going to miss me as If I was
going to war in a mock-comical fashion.

Truth behold my mother was deeply worried about the earth rattling quakes shaking Wellington.

I knew full well about the dangers involved and look a foolhardy idiot I set out in 

search of adventure. If my heart was destined to fall to its tragic death in unfortunate 
circumstance I was rest assured my soul would always return to linger closely by the side 
of both my parents. While thinking this very thought the bus fell with a great thump into a
gaping pothole causing my thoughts to flashback to the less than satisfying good-bye 
I had called to my youngest brother Charlie in his room instead of hugging him. 
In haste I had marched out our windowed front door worried I was going to miss my ride.
without saying a proper farewell wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I was sure Charlie 
had barely heard me as I shouted down our long echoing corridor. I knew that he was 
busily waging a virtual war against Hungary on his laptop computer and secretly hoped 
I had disrupted him. I could see him now as I layer hunched in the feral position his strong 
back bent over his bright multi-coloured compterscreen, his eyes glued to the events 
unfolding in front of his square eyes as he tapped out orders followed by digital soldiers
at his beck and call. I wish I had told him in an annoying big brother way to clean up
his room, especially his day old pop-corn bowls covered in stale butter that urked
the whole family. Even thought I knew full well he wouldn't, he would've simply grunted 
in reply or worse denied me the use of his ipad

.

Fully accepting my fate I slowly slunk back deep into the hard bed aboard the night-bus driven 

on in an unrelenting fashion by a somewhat manic kind-hearted driver. The driver a gruff voiced 

fellow called David command us to call him by his name and not the dehumanising title of driver.

He kept rabbiting on about things over the crackling onboard speaker as I started to zone out 
and feel ever so queasy. Again my stomach began to rebel against me in my dis-comfort 
I had to remember why I was travelling across a vast chunk of New Zealand's upper north 
island on a rickety bus. The first reason being of a practical nature was that all the plane
 flights were booked out or too expensive. The flaming bus-ride was an utter rip-off but 
much better value than forking out hundreds of dollars for a one hour flight at short notice. 
The second and infinitely more important reason being that I wanted to celebrate New Years
eve the following night with Gabriel in Wellington. We had organised to hit up a rave near 
Courtney place and true to my word that was what we were going to do. I would also be 
able to see his flat and catch up with his friends that had often travelled up to visit us in
Auckland which was an added bonus. Full of renewed resolve I pretended to recover my
wits and settle in for the long-haul drive through the night. I decisively thought 
without pretending that anything was better than lounging around in Auckland again 
like last year going to same dreary bar with the same hipsters year in year out. 

Queasy or not, I was on the road to ruin and was not turning back for anything 
even more so that I was going to bloody well enjoy it. I read an old text Gabriel 
had sent me telling how he would meet me outside the MacDonald's when I pulled 
up in 9 hours and 45 minutes. Soon enough my younger Brother and I (being the 
oldest of all my siblings) would be revelling in our wonky New Years eve glory like 
drunken knights readying for utter life-ending slaughter. With that thought in mind
I fell asleep, for how long I can't recall, all I do know is that I was having vivid lucid 
dreams about how we would run amuck on the most debauched night of 2016, 
then sacrifice the memories amassed in that hard and testing year on the sacrificial alter of 2017.  

No Time To Wait In Line

By Moss at Verona on K road

I walked into Verona past the polynesian bartender making idle chit chat with a flame haired broad. She was guarding her icy beers with a watchful eye, they stood like identical twins languishing on the wooden bar. One of the glasses looked slightly shorter as it had been drunk from more. I wondered where the woman's partner had gone, the unknown mans thirst only partially quenched. Upbeat music was being played by a worn out dj propped up on energy drinks. He was fast approaching the end of his poorly attended set. I couldn't place the dj's ethnicity but he looked pleasant enough spinning his last lovesick song of the night. Outside the windows open at the front of the bar framed the drunken passerby's walking some happy, some beautiful, some lost deep in thought. Cruising to the back of the restaurant i found the loo hidden behind a heavily posted corner wall. The stall was remarkably clean, smelling of pine woods yet to be defiled. I was glad my gamble had paid off. Struck with bored inspiration I had ditched the line queuing up at Neck of the Woods. All the ravers on ecstasy or rat poison had suddenly needed to relieve themselves of the excessive amounts of water they had been drinking. I was rather glad not to be one of them as the toilet line was sprawling out for miles like the great wall of china. In a cunning ploy I had torn up the dimly lit stairs in my dark leather boots to get some fresh air. I then wandered down K rd walking slightly faster than usual and was rewarded with a vacant restroom awaiting my arrival. Sometimes things just pan out the way you planned them and it's a glorious feeling.

Drunken Nostalgia

I saw the woman again after many years. After a while she saw me. 

I was only a hairs breathe from her. It was only a couple days out until xmas. 

She was standing neatly amongst the exotic teas surrounded by floral aromas in the St Luke’s tea shop. I remembered her perfectly as a girl from school who 

dyed her hair. Sometimes she would wear to much make-up at all when she

really didn’t have too. Her skin was fair even though she was part maori 

and enjoyed preforming Kapa-Haka. The last time i saw her face must have

seven years or more ago.

In the interim she had become rather plump, but in the most splendid way.

Her bottom always large in my hazy memory was now enormous easily double

if not triple the size of what i recalled. By the grace of God i swear upon your 

beating heart haha I nearly had a heart attack when i saw her turn round.

After a moments with memories performing backstroke in my head I slowly realised 

she was wearing a boring grey jersey around her body. She was trying to conceal 

maybe even restrain her fine  architecturally designed curves. 

I almost chuckled, as if a woman alone could hold back the raging tsunami 

that was her surging femininity. In many ways the woman reminded me of

a deep crush of mine being Nigella Lawson, except the girl now a woman 

was much younger and without a famous name. My thoughts then returned 

to her body to which I  do feel guilty for sexualising without consent or approval. 

Her breasts were round and vast like bumbling twin moons happy and gay in 

each others company. Her nose forever her finest feature remained angular 

and as lopsided as ever, giving her flare and character, one could never hope to

 achieve such asymmetrical beauty with the help of expensive plastic surgery. 

My eyes also noticed how her healthy jawline remained intact as well as her

protruding cheekbones that would easily slice the toughest french baguettes like butter.

When she cast her gaze upon me I sensed she was ill at easy. Insecure in her body, 

she seemed as if she had been through a taxing war of emotional disappointment since last I saw her. I thought wisely about pouncing on herald making trivial chit chat to try re-establish our paper thin high school connection, but was unsure. She seemed slightly 

frightened almost tearful and the last thing i wanted was to bring her dis-comfort.

 If i had talked to her, which In hindsight I should’ve had I not been a coward,  

i would’ve told her in all  sincerity how serenely beautiful she looked the night 

before Christmas eve. Perhaps in my drunken state of mind I may have even rabbited

on about how she looked far more stunning than i remembered her all those years ago

as a skittish snot-nosed girl in the eternal bloom of her youth.

Blocked by a Beautiful Stranger on Instagram

 

I felt a pang of sadness well up inside me when i realised she had blocked me on Instagram. I searched my conscience to filter back through time to see if i had been rude or mean. It came up blank. She had such fine features, Da Vinci himself would've struggled to render her onto white canvas. Her personality was so free spirited and zany. I felt rather devastated. On the scale of past hurts the pain was slight, a mere flesh wound. 

Yet at the same time it felt as if both my arms had been sliced from my body like the black knight from Monty Python.

Deep down I knew she would never know how such a small unthinking act of hers had flattened me. It took extra effort to get out of bed the next morning after being confronted by the bad news that I had been discarded. For all intents and purposes I had been declared surplus to requirements. The woman, someone, I had grown to adore in the most innocent of ways had left.Slowly I realised we were strangers even though we shared the same city and love of burgers. It was obvious now we lived in two vastly different circumstances, our circles would never intersect, unless dumb luck intervened. 

Over the coming days my love for her slowly evaporated 

into the dry cracks of my heart. Then one evening rain clouds gathered outside my window and let down a torrent of rain. I woke up and heard the cry of the wind as I hugged my worn pillow under my blanket. The lack of stars in the next sky only intensified my sadness and irrational sense of loss, and yet I was still glad I had loved her, in my own gentle unsuspecting kind of way. The only way I knew how!

Zombies and Asteroids

Sometimes we all get fatigued and can’t be bothered stepping

down into the muddy cesspit of humanity. Together in groups or alone humans beings become identical when you weigh up  how they live. I believe it was Warhol who said whether your rich or poor Coca-Cola taste equally as good to you. So the woman flaunting her green diamonds is really no different to the poor unwashed beggar sleeping in a bus shelter. Both eat, drink, sleep and have unfulfilled wishes. It's the same with the sunburnt men bickering drunk while smoking expensive cigars in late afternoon. All the fat self-confessed know it alls have absolutely no idea why they're alive, each one knowing far less than the next. 

From a view educated by common sense, almost everyone seems to have the same generic facial expression photocopied across their faces. To hell with these people, impostors, fakes. What is the point of their stupid vacuous lives, like worn plasticine drooping from a rented ceiling they're destined to die like plants left out in the sun to long. No matter how much money they amass or alcohol they consume in time they will perish.

In this super-city of millions, Auckland, the sense of irony is that one can still struggle to find someone to dance or sing with even hold a meaningful conversation. Long gone are the days where courtship flared like lightning over a shared mulled wine in a cheap restaurant. I wouldn't go so far as to say that cerebral conversation was dead. But I would say it was dying, on life support, struggling to pay the bills with the doctors santized finger looming precariously over the white hospital switch. 

    

Drones, zombies, even spitting cobras are transformed into arrogant office workers in the mid-day sun. With their cynical spreadsheets and exotic cups of coffee they mull about as indistinguishable as over-sized ants crushed under the obscene weight of society. The last remnants of their fractured self is liquified by their bosses who control like Hollywood directors every action of there bad acting. Like caged animals bankers, accountants, lawyers all wander back and forth slowly breaking into pieces. Their brains reduced to pink putty ooze out across their new clear desks. The overworked zombies, men and woman alike they all seem so unloved, as if they were tortured in Guantonmo bay with a continuous loop of Eminem songs. After work the all simply fall apart like children's toys discarded and thrown into trash cans everywhere in the CBD. There human emotions bought for a pittance and manufactured and sold back to them in the form of flatscreen tv's with a Netflix's subscription not included. 

I still didn’t want a microscopic thing to do with these Camusian strangers. Even if they were destined to become the unfeeling leaders of our corrupt draconian world. These proletariat lords lingered heavy over me like a symphony of crying rain clouds reducing the world to grey, and yet like soggy unread newspapers the zombies were remarkably beautiful, even necessary to justify the whole of human achievement. For amongst the heaving madness of human society with all its mindless depravity one could still find glass shards of splinted miracles. Time and time again all throughout history a rainbow unicorn or a sharpened needle would be haphazardly tossed into the infinity of space. By the hand of beauty the oldest living Goddes who still breathed in deeply the smoggy air of our blue planet. She alone was truly Unbroken, love, gave life too all and sustained the growing nightmare of life in concrete deserts. Amongst the unfeeling and pitiful human's some rare souls still existed like love propelled asteroid's crashing landing into barren lives with the power to electrify reality.